


rendez-vous

by papofglencoe



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Infidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-22 20:32:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6093205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papofglencoe/pseuds/papofglencoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Katniss Everdeen is in Manhattan for one night. Her wedding ring is off, and she’s planning to make this Valentine’s Day unforgettable.</p><p>A Modern AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	rendez-vous

“Excuse me, madam?”

Her gray eyes flit over to the source of the voice before making their way back to the window, looking out to the same spot where they’ve been anchored for the past twenty minutes, watching for some sign of him.

She hates how obsequious and polite that voice is, how its owner is reduced to servile smiles and ingratiating nods and bows. Some part of her feels compelled to tell him to relax, that he’ll get his twenty percent, that no one should have to dehumanize themselves to earn their bread.

“Yes,” she answers instead, her eyes surveying the wintry scene outside, taking in the sight of the whirling eddies of snow floating languidly through the air and the taxis inching their way through the heavy evening traffic, crawling slower than the pedestrians slipping along on the icy sidewalk.

“Can I get you another glass of wine while you wait?”

She runs her thumb around the rim of the stemless glass, smudging the lipstick traces she’s left on it, and considers the question.

He’ll show up. She knows that. Of course he will. Why wouldn’t he? Unless something’s happened to—

No. She’s sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation as to why he’s running late. He’s probably even texted her to explain. She bites the inside of her cheek, frustrated at herself for leaving her phone back in her hotel room. She’d just been so eager to get here—to see him—that she didn’t think to grab it as she dashed out the door. She imagines it on the bedside table, its screen uselessly lighting up the empty room with messages from him: _I’m on my way. Hang on. I’m so sorry. Don’t run off with someone else. ;)_ And then, because it’s been far too long: _I need to be inside you. I miss you_.

“Yes,” she says to the waiter. “That would be nice. Thanks.” It doesn’t sound like hers, that voice. The voice coming out of her mouth is choked with nerves and anticipation. It’s raspy and low and possibly also ashamed.

She tugs self-consciously at the waist and then the hem of her emerald green bandage dress, a Hervé Léger number she’d scrimped and saved to buy years ago but never had the occasion to wear until tonight. In her attempt to cover the chilled, bare skin of her thighs, she pulls the fabric of the dress lower, exposing more of her cleavage. Even in a push-up bra she’s not particularly busty, so she rationalizes that, in the war between exposed tits and ass, her cleavage is the lesser offense.

Besides, he’ll appreciate it. For some reason he’s always been fond of her tits, underwhelming as they are.

When the waiter comes back, placing the wine glass smoothly onto the crisp white linen tablecloth, she glances guiltily at the thick crowd of patrons milling in the lobby waiting for tables and then at the empty chair across from her. “Could you tell me what time it is?” she asks him, frowning.

She decides he has sympathetic eyes, even if she can tell that outside of work he is the type of man to carry himself with a confidence that borders on arrogance. The waiter pulls his cell phone out of his pocket, his startlingly green eyes illuminated by the glow of the screen as he checks the time. “8:26.” His tone is neutral, as if he doesn’t know her companion is almost half an hour late.

 _He pities me_ , she realizes. _But he shouldn’t. Whatever he thinks he knows, he doesn’t know my secret_.

Grabbing the menu in front of her, she glances down at the appetizers, not really bothering to decipher the embellished script font. She notices that she’s still wearing her wedding ring, a humble, plain gold band so worn it looks like it has more nicks and scratches to it than it has metal. She’ll have to wait until the waiter walks away to drop it into her purse.

“I’ll order a goat cheese tart while I’m waiting.” It’s not a question, but she says it politely.

The waiter bows and gives her a dimpled, feline grin. “Excellent choice. I’ll put that in for you right away.”

As soon as he turns his back, she twists the ring off her finger and, furtively opening her handbag, she places it into a small side pouch to keep it safe. Something like remorse winds itself into her gut, rooting and expanding there, robbing her of her taste for food.

It feels wrong, _she_ feels wrong, but the mere thought of having him between her thighs tonight makes her ache and squirm in her chair. There’s nothing wrong in the world when his tongue and fingers are working her to climax. So the ring stays in her bag, a telltale heart calling to her, shaming her for playing cheap games.

She’s imagining him fucking her from behind, her hands clutching, grasping at the upholstered headboard for purchase, when the waiter delivers her goat cheese tart.

He leans toward her, his voice low. He looks nervous, as if he shouldn’t be saying anything at all. _Which he shouldn’t be_ , she thinks caustically. “Do you need to borrow my phone to call somebody?”

She pushes the plate lightly with her index finger and sighs, trying and failing miserably not to be annoyed by the offer or the fact that she appears to be on her own for dinner.

“No, I’ll just go ahead and order my entree,” she grumbles, giving the menu another cursory glance. She catches herself thinking about what he might want to share and becomes irritated with herself that, even now, when he’s nowhere to be found, she cares enough to consider his preferences. She decides to pick her favorite entree. “I’ll have the lamb shank.”

The waiter’s bronze hair bounces as he nods once in approbation. “Another excellent choice.” As if, when asked for his opinion, he’d say anything on the menu tastes like shit. He points to the goat cheese tart, which looks light and fluffy and baked to perfection, as he backs away. “Bon appétit, madam,” he offers, his voice as silky and smooth and artery-clogging as melted butter.

Somehow the tart is even better than it looks, and in her enjoyment of it, which borders on the orgasmic, she ceases to look for him out on the street. She scans the room instead, watching the other patrons as they dine together, some chatting amiably while others eat in taciturn silence. People of every age and size and ethnicity surround her, filling the dining room with a cacophony of voices and accents, a senseless babel of languages. Although she is surrounded and enveloped by humanity, she has never felt more isolated from it. She is a rock, fixed in the middle of a wide stream, cold and unmoving as the waters swirl around her. She is silent and observant; life goes on without her.

Everyone here seems to have someone, and when her eyes fall to the chair across from her, she fights the ridiculous urge to cry. She has someone, after all. At home. She consoles herself with this. But the truth tastes bitter on her tongue; this time with him would have been precious. As it is, she leaves Manhattan tomorrow morning, and there’s no saying when she’ll be able to make it back.

A movement across the restaurant catches her eye. It is a man of slightly-taller-than-average height and of broad, muscular build walking through the entrance, full of bluster and covered in a dusting of snow. He stomps the snow from his shoes and shakes it carelessly from his wavy blond hair. Almost impatiently, he unwinds his thick cable knit scarf from around his neck and hands it along with his wool overcoat to the coat check attendant by the door.

She can’t take her eyes off of him; something inherent to him commands her attention, willing her to watch as he approaches the maître d’. Even from this distance, she notices how his cheeks are flushed from the frosty night air but that his eyes are a shade of blue so bright and warm they remind her of wading through tropical shallows on a summer afternoon.

Maybe it makes her fickle and disloyal, but the moment her eyes lock on him, it’s like she’s never been waiting for anyone else. The man she was waiting for is gone. He could have been someone, or he could have been no one. He might never have existed at all, for all she cares. Because now she only wants it to be _him_. The force of his presence is so compelling to her, so bright, he forces out the shadowy absences, all the silences and uncertainties.

The man consults the maître d’, and she watches as he scans the room briefly, looking for someone. As his eyes pass over her, it is like every babbling, prattling diner falls silent. The world becomes something hushed and sacred. But if he notices, he gives no indication; his eyes continue their sweep. He must not find who he’s looking for, because he smiles apologetically to the head waiter and heads over to the bar, where he takes an empty seat.

She tries not to stare at him as she sips her wine, but it’s like he has shifted the gravity of the room, drawing everything in an orbit around him. Or maybe he is just drawing her.

The bartender is a young, flirty thing with big tits, long, flowing blond hair, and an avaricious smile. She rests her elbows on the bar as she leans forward to take his order, pressing her breasts against the granite surface to put her best assets forward. She watches as the man laughs with her and smiles politely, chatting to the bartender as she pours him a glass of amber fluid— bourbon or Tennessee whiskey, by the looks of it.

She scowls and, feeling ten years and two cup sizes on the wrong side of the bartender, tugs the neckline of her dress a little lower. She takes a deep, centering breath and runs her hand over her abdomen. It’s not as flat as it used to be, but she’s still slender, and in this dress, the curves she’s picked up over the years make her feel more feminine. She was never particularly big. Or pretty. She could never compete with a woman like that.

But she still has one or two moves left.

She shoots a look over her shoulder, casting a furtive glance toward the man at the bar, and her heart gallops in her chest, stampeding across open plains toward some unknown canyon, when she notices his piercing blue eyes lock on her. As he stands up and turns toward her, grasping his drink in his hand, her breath catches and she looks away, feeling deliciously caught. She closes her eyes and counts down the seconds and, because she is wrong and twisted, she hopes.

She gets what she hopes for fourteen seconds later.

“Are you waiting for someone?”

There’s no other way for her to describe his voice than _pleasing_. It makes its way into her ear, traveling down the column of her neck, reaching for the tips of her fingers to twine itself through them. It winds itself around her breasts, lodges itself in her belly, rolling and dropping its way lackadaisically to her core.

Just the sound of his voice makes her wet. It pleases her.

She meets his gaze and gives what she hopes looks like a resigned smile, shrugging one shoulder as she answers, “Not anymore.”

“Mind if I join you then?” he asks, pointing to the empty chair. “All the other tables are full, and I think my date might have canceled our reservation on me without thinking I’d care to know.”

She gives a short, incredulous laugh. “You too? What are the odds of that?”

He smiles. “Probably not good.” He doesn’t wait to be invited. Decisively, as if he is worried she will send him away, he pulls the chair back in one motion and lands heavily in it. For a moment his eyes remain pensively fixed on his hands as they clutch his glass, the condensation from the ice rolling down the glass to the white tablecloth. After some hesitation, he looks up at her, his expression forcefully untroubled. “Wanna trade sob stories?”

She leans her elbows on the table, thrumming the fingers of her left hand on it, and considers how much to tell him. “I was supposed to be meeting someone here.”

“And he never showed?” he asks, watching her fingers tap out a tattoo on the table, his eyebrows knitted into a deep frown, as if he can’t believe the gall of some men.

She takes her time answering because she doesn’t really want to talk to this man. No, she wants to drink him up, soak him in, ingest every last drop of him. He looks to be about her age, or slightly older—mid-30s, most likely. His thick, wavy hair is untouched by age; the candlelight on the table catches its gold threads, making him look like some fire deity. His jaw is sharp and peppered with a day’s worth of stubble, a fine, dark shade of blond. And, at this distance his eyes are so bright and clear they remind her of a spring breeze, a soft, gentle air that warms her bones.

He is stunningly attractive.

She points to him, her finger casually gesturing to the seat he’s just taken. “It would seem not.” It should be obvious to him, she thinks, that she’s been stood up.

He clears his throat and shifts uncomfortably, one hand pulling at the breast of his suit jacket. “That was shitty of him. I’m sorry about that.”

She sighs, absentmindedly rubbing the bare spot on her ring finger where her wedding band should be. “Don’t be. It was probably a bad idea anyway.”

He frowns and leans forward, mirroring her posture, his hands clasped together on the table. She notices how thick his fingers are, how capable they look, dexterous and strong. “Why would it be a bad idea—going out for dinner?” He seems genuinely concerned.

She’s quick to answer. Better for him to get an accurate measure of her sooner rather than later, to know who he’s dealing with and what she is willing to do. “Because it wasn’t just going to be dinner.”

His eyebrows rocket up at her words, and he doesn’t bother to mask his surprise. She respects that, the fact that he didn’t expect to hear that answer but doesn’t seem to judge her for what it implies. If he had judged her, there would have been a mask. That’s how people are, after all. They hide their ill opinions behind veneers of indifference. “And why was _that_ a bad idea?” he presses.

“Because I’m only here for the night.” She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and he watches her do it. She watches him watching her, and she feels the unbearable need to cross her legs to relieve some of the pressure mounting at the apex of her thighs.

“Because…” he prompts, waiting for her to continue.

“I’m in town on business.”

He smiles, his face cracking open like she’s just said ‘open sesame.’ “See,” he coaches her, as if he’s finally understood that he has a ready player. “Now this is where you explain what you do for a living.”

She smiles back, a small, amused expression that tugs at the corner of her lips. “I’m an assassin.”

He laughs, and she loves the sound. _That sound_ , she thinks. It is the sound of relaxation and comfort and lazy afternoons spent sipping sweet iced tea on a porch swing while young children chase the family dog. “That’s a good one,” he says, looking impressed, “I haven’t heard _that_ one before.”

She laughs with him and admires the faded freckles splashed lightly across his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose, but she doesn’t say a word. It’s taking her a moment to process the way he makes her feel, simultaneously at ease, like she’s known him her entire life, but also profoundly uncomfortable, like the clothes and the skin between them are too much, too agonizingly much, to bear.

His eyes sparkle with mirth in the candlelight, as if this is fun for him, mentoring a stranger in the art of small talk. “Now you’re supposed to ask me what I do for a living.”

She bites. “What do you do for a living?”

He answers without pause. “Nothing at all. My family owns half of the city—but just the good half. I hope that isn’t too much of a turnoff.” The corners of his eyes crinkle when he chuckles. “Seems to turn off most women,” he adds playfully.

She looks at his suit, the fine cut of it, the way it’s tailored to fit him perfectly, and she might actually consider believing him except for the dry skin on his hands, the chapping she can see along his knuckles and along the delicate skin between his thumb and index finger.

He catches her staring at his hands, and she looks down bashfully. “Yeah, I’m totally calling bullshit. Those hands tell me you work with them for a living.”

The chuckle that rumbles in his chest is a sound of pleasure. “How so?” he asks her.

Feeling bold, she reaches out and lightly swipes her thumb along the cracked skin of his knuckles. She hears his breath hitch, sees his Adam’s apple bob as he labors to swallow. “You wash them all the time,” she tells him, her voice as low and gentle as a whispered breath.

He pulls his hand away to run it through his hair, and she feels disappointed, like maybe she’s overstepped some boundary by touching him. “Well you’re a sharp one,” he notes. He looks impressed with her, though, maybe even a bit proud. “You got me.”

She arches an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” He exhales heavily and laughs. “I’m a doctor.”

“What kind?” she asks, feeling like she must be the one now who looks impressed.

“A pediatric surgeon.” She watches his thumb rub slow circles in the palm of his right hand, over and over as if he were massaging something painful out of his bones.

“You like kids.”

“No,” he corrects her. “I love them.”

His words warm her, the simple sincerity of them, but there’s guilt there, too, pressing on her chest. She glances out the window, considering something as she watches a couple shamble by, hand-in-mittened-hand. She looks back to him suddenly, feeling his gaze on her. His eyes dart upward from her chest, a pale pink flush instantly creeping onto his face.

He holds out his hand to her. “I’m Peeta, by the way.”

She takes his hand and revels in the way it engulfs hers. Her fingers are icy compared to his, and she selfishly soaks up what she can, like little icicles melting in the spring sunshine. “Katniss,” she says. “Not an assassin.”

She reluctantly withdraws her hand, resting it on the table between them.

“Nice to meet you, Katniss-not-an-assassin,” he impishly grins. “So what do you really do?”

“I’m a pharmaceuticals rep.” She wrinkles her nose. “It’s not the most glamorous job, but it’s why I’m on the road.”

“Huh,” Peeta observes, “how about that? So _you’re_ in the business of pushing drugs, and _I’m_ in the business of buying.” His words make her smile—everything about him is making her smile. He smiles back. “Well, that’s a real piece of luck,” he adds.

A comfortable silence settles between them as they appraise each other. It unspools—a long, unbroken thread that winds around them and creates a cocoon where they can exist in their own private world.

The waiter interrupts the spell after what could be seconds or minutes or hours. He carries a tray holding Katniss’ entree, looking genuinely surprised to see the seat across from her taken.

“Will you be dining with us as well, sir? I can grab a menu for you—” he begins.

“No, I’m fine, thanks,” Peeta interrupts, his tone conciliatory. “I don’t want to be a bother.” He looks at the rack of lamb on Katniss’ plate and wets his lips.

Katniss can’t blame him. The lamb shank looks delectable—glistening and perched delicately on a bed of celery root mash. She scratches beneath her nose to conceal her smile and looks to the waiter. “Maybe you could bring back the second place setting, though?” She wouldn’t mind sharing it with Peeta, even if they had just met.

“It’s all right?” he asks. “If I stay?”

She smiles and nods, steepling her fingers and tapping their tips together lightly. “I’d like that.”

When Peeta smiles, dimples magically appear on his cheek. She wonders where dimples come from; she knows they’re hereditary, but they’re such an oddity—from an evolutionary perspective. Odd except that she thinks it must be the men with dimples who procreate at higher rates…just the sight of them makes her want to crawl into Peeta’s lap and ride him.

He points to Katniss’ nearly empty glass. “What are you drinking—Cabernet? Bordeaux?”

She arches an eyebrow and lifts her glass to him. “Bordeaux. Good guess.”

As soon as the waiter returns with an extra set of silverware, Peeta chimes in, “Can we get a bottle of the Bordeaux, please?”

The waiter bows as though he’s serving the King of England, and Katniss is pleased to notice that Peeta looks as uncomfortable with it as she is. “Very well, sir. The Chateau Le Bergey?”

“Oui,” Peeta deadpans, trying and failing to keep an entirely straight face. Because, as the three of them well know, there’s just one Bordeaux on the wine list.

When the waiter is out of earshot, Peeta and Katniss begin to laugh together. “I feel like such an asshole in places like this,” he admits.

“Me too,” she gasps, her shoulders shaking and eyes tearing up from laughing so hard. “I’m a little outclassed…I’m more of an Applebee’s girl, myself.”

“Well, maybe we could meet there the next time you’re around, huh?” Peeta asks, and Katniss blushes at the unconcealed hope in the question, at his desire to see her again.

The food is delicious and so is the wine, but neither compares to the delicious company. As they eat and talk, as the minutes slide by and the plate grows barer and the wine in the bottle vanishes, they find out more about each other’s lives and interests. Peeta makes it so easy for her, coaxing and teasing out information that she’s never told anyone else before.

She once climbed the Great Pyramid of Giza to watch the sun rise over the desert. When she was in college she auditioned for Cirque du Soleil. And the first time she had sex was when she was fifteen, in a meadow at dusk with the first boy she ever loved. As she voices these things, they become real, settling in and creating a foundation between them.

Layer by layer, they build.

Peeta tells her he’s lived all of his thirty five years in Manhattan. He’s known he wanted to be a doctor for thirty. He hasn’t left the city in three, not even crossing the Hudson or East Rivers.

When he tells her this, she laughs. “I think that makes you a monk?”

“A _homebody_ ,” he confesses, “ _not_ a monk.” His knee knocks against hers under the table, a slow, deliberate movement that nudges her legs apart. The proximity of his body to the delicate skin of her thigh sends a jolt directly to her core.

She wants him.

And he wants her, too.

As they chat, and they order a second bottle of wine, Katniss kicks off one of her heels and moves her foot inch by inch, centimeter by centimeter, toward Peeta’s until, somehow, she is running her foot upward, from his ankle, along his calf, and pressing her foot into the muscled flesh of his inner thigh.

She takes a long pull from her wine glass, watching with satisfaction as his breath catches and his eyelids grow heavy. When her foot reaches his cock, gently massaging it, he gasps and clutches her with one hand, arresting the movement of her toes.

Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s lust. It’s certainly something more, something she doesn’t want to consider tonight. But she wants to kiss his wine-stained lips, to crush them with hers and taste him. And when his hand grasps the sensitive skin of her ankle and caresses it, slowly skating upward, she bites on her tongue to swallow her moan. It’s like he knows exactly how she wants— _needs_ —to be touched.

She soaks her scruples in alcohol and throws a lit match on them to incinerate them. Her wedding band calls to her from her purse, and she throws the bag on the bonfire. She ignores its cries and loses herself in the sensation of Peeta’s hand on her bare knee, tracing its contours, searching and exploring every inch of her that he can reach under the table.

When the waiter shows up and asks them if they care for dessert, they answer at the same time. “No.” “Yes.” They look at each other and laugh, answering together again. This time they say, “Yes.” “No.”

Working hard not to look bemused, the waiter suggests in a practiced voice that they take a moment to discuss, offering to bring them a menu.

“No, I think we’re all set here.” She stares at Peeta’s flushed face while she speaks, her eyes lost in the dark abyss of his pupils. “Just the check would be great, thank you.”

The moment the waiter walks away, Katniss leans forward, whispering to Peeta, “What are you doing tonight?” Her question is breathless and rushed. Her words are those of a starving woman, of a girl who hasn’t eaten in weeks.

He’s opening his mouth to answer when his cell phone begins to buzz in his jacket pocket. He frowns, withdrawing his hand from where it rests on her knee, and reaches into his pocket to retrieve his phone. It’s a text message, and when he rests the phone on the table, unlocking the screen to reply, she sees it.

Or rather, she sees _them_. The photo of two children on his homescreen. A girl. And a boy. Both young. The boy can’t be much older than two. They’re smiling, and they have dimples.

They have their father’s dimples.

Katniss thinks about the ring in her bag and about how she’s not the only one with a secret. She thinks about those children— _his_ children—and her heart races and contracts painfully in an inelegant dance of longing and guilt.

When Peeta drops his phone back into his pocket, she asks as coolly and nonchalantly as she can muster, “Is everything alright over there?”

His face clears, all the uneasiness in his expression vanishing instantly. “Oh yeah, absolutely. No worries over here. That was—I’m just—on call tonight. But everything is fine.” He gives her an untroubled smile. “As you were saying—” he presses.

It’s hypocritical, she knows, but she needs to ask him. “I—uh—couldn’t help but notice…” Her voice trails off as she considers whether to say it, how far back to pull the curtain.

Those blue eyes remain fixed on her, waiting. There’s something infinitely tender and kind in the way he looks at her. It unsettles and pains her.

It makes her wish that she could do everything all over again with him.

"Your home screen,” she says finally.

He swallows thickly and nods, and she knows in that moment how he is going to answer her question.

“Are those children yours?”

Peeta’s face flushes a violent shade of pink, the color of strawberry sherbet. He looks like neopolitan ice cream with his smooth skin, his bright flush, the soft chocolate smattering of his freckles. “Yes,” he tells her. And then, “Is it okay for me to admit that?”

His face is apologetic and pleading. He _wants_ it to be okay, she can tell. He wants it so badly. Peeta holds his broad shoulders like an over-tuned guitar string, so taut that they crackle with tension and threaten to snap at the lightest touch.

He waits for her.

She gives him a small smile as she thinks about how he doesn’t like children. How he _loves_ them. How he loves _his_ children. How the man in front of her wouldn’t consider denying them to uphold a beautiful lie. So she answers him in the only possible way, even in these circumstances. “Of course it’s okay. Why wouldn’t it be?”

His shoulders sag, and when he doesn’t answer this question, the silence tells Katniss all she needs to know.

Because of their mother.

The waiter, that ever-inconvenient, tedious pest of a man, comes by with a bill, placing it in front of Peeta. Katniss immediately reaches for it, but he snatches the billfold before she can get to it and holds it to his chest. “Katniss, I’ve got this. Please. I don’t get to do this anymore.”

He slides his credit card in and places the billfold at the edge of the table. She can see half of the numbers, half of his name: “ _Peeta J. M_ —”

They sit in silence for the next several minutes while they wait for the waiter to take the bill and run Peeta’s card. It eats at her, the silence, infesting her with worry and and doubt. Her pulse hammers so frenetically she feels light-headed and sick, and when she looks at Peeta, he’s staring down at his left hand, his eyes fixated on the exact spot where his wedding ring should be.

But there’s no ring there, and so she manages, somehow, to ask him, “Do you still love her—the mother of your children?”

She doesn’t expect him to look so stricken by her question. She simply needs to know this, needs to hear where she stands before she takes him back to her hotel room and fucks this married man.

She thinks he’ll say yes, she expects that. But she doesn’t expect the answer he gives her.

“More than life,” he tells her, looking sick to have been asked. He looks out the window, his chest rising and falling as he takes shallow, anxious breaths. She watches him gaze at the lights of the city, at the hulking buildings looming overhead. His leg begins to bounce nervously, and Katniss reaches her hand out, placing it on his knee to calm him.

It’s just a fuck. If she can do this, then so can he.

But he doesn’t allow it.

His hand rests on top of hers, his fingers curling around her hand, grasping it tightly. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I can’t do this. I thought I could. I really thought I wanted to,” he whispers, his voice thick and gravelly. “But it’s all lies, Katniss. Everything I told you. Well, most of it, anyway. Not my name, but most of the rest of it. I’m not a pediatric surgeon here in Manhattan. I haven’t even been to the city since my daughter was born. I run a bakery in Piscataway, where I live with my wife and two kids. My daughter is Brie. My son—he’s Archie. And my family—my family is everything to me.”

She wants to tell him that she’s married too, that they’re the exact same, that they can still do this. That they should still do this. But any protestations she could have made die on her lips as Peeta continues.

His voice shakes with emotion, and whatever place he speaks from, she can tell it is somewhere raw and vulnerable. “You are, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.” He reaches out and takes her hand, squeezing it like he aches at the thought of having to let go. “You have no idea—the effect you have. But the thing is, I love everything about my life. I don’t want to be someone I’m not. I _love_ my wife. And I don’t want to fuck someone else when I can make love to her.”

His words rob her of air. They claw their way inside of her and scoop everything out, hollowing her. He makes her miss her husband so much she could die from the pain of it. It would hurt less being strangled to death. She thinks about the man she spent her evening with, and she lets him go for something better. If there is pain, if there is loss, there’s something else there, too. Something more like hope.

The waiter returns and, overhearing the serious turn the conversation has taken, he wisely refrains from issuing empty pleasantries. His eyes dart between Katniss and Peeta like he is reading their lives and every secret tucked away into the dark corners of their minds. He laughs to himself before he walks away.

Peeta takes his card, signing the bill and snapping the book shut with a decided air. Standing, he takes the single step toward Katniss and hovers over her. She looks up at him, her eyes glittering with shame and regret and—relief. Yes, she is, more than anything, profoundly relieved.

He leans down, cupping the back of her head, his thumb lightly stroking her hair, and plants a lingering kiss to her forehead. “I’m so sorry, Katniss,” he tells her, holding her gaze, his face filled with sincerity and contrition.

“It’s okay,” she whispers up to him, hating the thought that she has given him any occasion for regret.

Since there’s nothing left to say, he walks away, cutting a path through the restaurant like a man on a mission. He retrieves his coat and scarf and bundles up, bracing himself for the onslaught of winter wind outside the door.

She watches Peeta walk out onto the street, jamming his hands into his coat pockets as he hunches his shoulders against the cold.

He chances one last look at her before he is swallowed up by the heaving crowd pushing their way along the street.

Katniss reaches into her bag and slips her ring back on her hand.

***************************

She closes the hotel room door shut behind her, the lock snicking softly as it slides into place. She presses her back against it and breathes deeply, happy to be in a place she can call home for the night. The room is dark, and the traffic from down on the street whirs and hums, filling the room with a calming white noise.

She hears him before she sees him.

She feels him before she hears him.

His broad hands wind their way around her waist, his thumb gently stroking her abdomen, the curves he gave to her from carrying his children.

“I’m so sorry I fucked up tonight,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to hers, the wine on his breath fanning across her face.

“No,” she whispers, threading her fingers through his hair like she’d wanted to all evening. “You made tonight perfect. You were perfect.”

He chuckles and draws her into his arms. She presses her face to his naked chest to feel it against her cheek. “I’m hardly that,” he protests. “I was so late… I got held up at the bakery _again_ because Thom called out, and then Jo showed up late to watch the kids, and you were there waiting the whole—”

“Shh,” she silences him. It’s Valentine’s Day, and this is their first proper date night in over two years, and they haven’t had sex in… _weeks_ , and dammit if they aren’t going to end this night with him between her legs. She leans up on her tiptoes, swaying a little from the wine and the way he makes her feel, even after all these years. His lips meet hers, and she kisses away his worries, licks and nips and wrestles away his doubts. “Shh,” she repeats, because even though he isn’t talking, she can hear his every thought.

“You clean up nice,” she tells him when her calves can’t handle the strain anymore and she sinks down a couple inches, just out of reach of his lips. She squeezes his ass playfully through his boxers.

He scoops her up easily and carries her over to the bed, laying her on the comforter and taking a step back. Even in the dark of the room, she can feel his eyes on her, raking over her like hot coals. They brand her. _Mine, she’s mine. Somehow, mine_. He groans and bites his fist, “Don’t even get me started on that dress, Katniss.”

“This old thing?” she jokes, looking up at him. But when she meets his eyes, she tells him the truth. “I bought it before we had Brie…I didn’t know if I was going to be able to wedge myself into it.”

He crawls onto the bed, hovering over her, dipping his head to capture her lips in a sweet kiss. “Bet it fits you even better now.” She feels one of his hands slide across her ribcage and up to her breast, ghosting over the peak of her nipple.

“Peeta,” she breathes, her voice a soft purr.

“Yes?” he asks distractedly, sucking the spot behind her ear that drives her fucking insane.

“The more that guy talked about his life, the more I just wanted my husband.”

He stops kissing her and pulls away to look into her eyes. His hand is warm and comforting as it caresses her neck and traces the line of her jaw. The way he looks at her, like this, fills her until she’s sure she will burst from the feeling of it.

“I don’t want some bigshot surgeon,” she whispers. She squeezes his biceps, basking in his strength and steadiness. “I’ve only ever wanted you.” She lifts her head off the bed to kiss those lips, those wine-stained lips.

“But what about Cirque du Soleil,” he chuckles lightly, brushing her hair away from her neck and lifting her shoulders to reach behind her, slowly pulling down the zipper of her dress.

As he suckles her neck, pulling the flesh into his mouth, she gasps and tries to focus on her words as they escape her, one by one. “No…only ever the boy in the meadow.”

“I like that you kept _him_ ,” Peeta confesses, peeling the bandage dress off her body and tossing it lightly onto the desk chair across the room. His fingers hook into her panties, and he inches them off her, kissing and licking her flesh as he tugs them down.

She can feel his erection grinding against her, the way his hips slowly lower to press against her, reminding her that he wants her. After all this time, and two children, he wants her. More than ever. Just like this. Her husband wants to make love to her.

“I’m sorry the role play was a failure,” she moans, feeling light-headed and breathless, drunk on wine and the way Peeta feels rubbing against her.

He pulls away, shifting on the bed to slide off his boxers and kick them to the floor.

“I wouldn’t say that,” he says, sounding amused. He hitches her legs over his shoulders one by one, lowering himself and kissing a path upward along her thighs. His kisses punctuate his words as he tells her slowly, agonizingly, playfully, lovingly, “It’s just that I can think of much better games to play.”

“Me too,” she whispers, groaning as his tongue reaches its destination, the place that had been aching for him all night. “I know one called ‘let’s make a baby.’”

He pauses, and his blue eyes look up at her hopefully from between her legs. “Really?” he asks. “Can we?”

Now he’s cheating, because his hands aren’t waiting for an answer. They’re stroking her, rubbing her, sneaking their way inside her, coaxing an answer out of her.

“Please,” she gasps, her hips already writhing and bucking, searching for him. “We make the best babies.”

“Yeah,” he grins. “We really do.”

Eagerly, he climbs his way up her body. He kisses her deeply as he slides into her.

Together, like this, in each other’s arms, they play their favorite game.


End file.
